


The Perfect Gift

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Pre-Quest, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Yuletide at Bag End, two points of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the LJ Community Shy_writers "I’d like to share for Yule... challenge" (December 2004)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry's POV

What do you give the hobbit who has everything? It was a question I had pondered for many a day, and still I had no ready answer.

Another cravat? He hardly ever wore the ones he already owned. And only then, under protest.

Embroidered pocket handkerchiefs? He bought them by the gross, and lost them in equal measure.

A purple velvet jacket? He preferred to wander the Shire in that scruffy old brown one he favoured.

Obviously, my cousin cares little for frippery and does not have my good taste in clothes. Perhaps a more practical present, then?

A fine bottle of Father's wine? Bilbo left him a well-stocked cellar.

A tasty treat from Cook's kitchen? Samwise Gamgee always bakes up a storm at Yuletide, trying to tempt Frodo's dainty appetite and put a bit more meat on his scrawny bones.

Never mind that, then. And, anyway, food is so ephemeral. So something a bit more substantial, perhaps?

Of course, a book! But which one to choose? It would never do to select a duplicate. And Bag End's shelves overflow with well-loved volumes. One more book would scarce be noticed amidst the clutter.

No, not a book then. Not paper, nor quills, nor ink.

But what?

The time for decision was upon me. Yule was in but two short days! And here was I, empty-handed and empty-headed, already on the road to Hobbiton, it being my turn to do the traveling this year. Pippin would soon be joining me on my journey, if the rascal had not already galloped on ahead to be the first to arrive. No doubt his quick and clever mind had settled on the perfect mathom months ago...

I sighed and did not protest as my pony slowed to furtively munch upon a tasty clump of dried grass. Frost crystals sparkled in the early morning sun, and tickled her into a sudden sneeze.

“You're right, Nell-lass,” I murmured. “Pipeweed it is, again this year. Good thing I packed extra when I tied up bundles for Pippin and Sam.”

I knew this gift would please my cousin. No gift at all would please him just the same. His joy is in our company -- as is the true intent of the season.

Still...

I know he puts on a brave front. Never would he admit to loneliness, but the years since Bilbo left cannot have been easy ones for him. Again I sighed, and gave a light tug on Nell's reins. Ah, well. We'd fill his smial with joyful noise as best we might. And, hopefully, our clatter would make him more appreciative of the subsequent long, quiet days.

~*~

As I predicted, Pippin was lounging at Frodo's gate, one eye cast to the road in anticipation of my arrival, all the while nattering on and on to his poor captive audience, Sam, as that model of hobbit efficiency knotted fragrant evergreen boughs into tidy wreaths.

“Ho, there!” I called in greeting, and was almost unseated from my pony by an overly enthusiastic Took.

“Merry!” Pippin caroled. “Whatever kept you? I've been waiting ages and ages.”

Sam snorted and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “An' here I just finished stablin' his pony.”

Pippin shot Sam a look, but charitably decided to ignore him in deference to the season. And, in any case, Bag End's green door swung open wide at that moment and Frodo ambled out. All knew he'd brook no sauce to Sam.

“Merry,” he smiled, wrapping me up in a welcoming embrace. I could feel his shivers though my thick woolen cloak.

Typical Frodo. He'd left his coat inside hanging on its peg and had naught but a thin shirt to protect him from the rising breeze .

But before I could open my mouth to chide him, Sam's cloak slipped 'round his master's shoulders.

“Can't have you catchin' chill,” Sam murmured.

Frodo's hand lifted as if to return the garment, but Sam smiled and backed away.

“I'll just take Nell off to the stables, Mr. Merry,” he offered.

“Sam...”

“'Tis warm in there,” Sam continued without pausing. “I'll give her a good rub-down and bring your packs on in when I'm done.”

“Sam...”

“I'll fetch my cloak then, Mr. Frodo. And just run these wreaths down to the Deerfoots for you, sir. I'll be back in plenty o' time to have that roast chicken done for supper as you wanted.”

And off he slipped without a backward glance.

Frodo clutched the borrowed cloak closer around himself and shot a half-amused, half-exasperated glance after his departing servant. “I'm surprised he didn't pop his hat over my ears while he was at it,” he muttered. “Come on in, lads. It _is_ freezing out here. And I have some mulled cider waiting.” He bounced on ahead and vanished into the smial.

I moved to follow, but noticed Pippin was not at our heels. “Pip?” I said quietly. I couldn't quite interpret the look on his face. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, Merry,” he chirped, linking arms with me and dragging me inside at a smart pace. Whatever the look had been, it was now gone. And I thought no more about it.

~*~

“No one sets a table like your Sam,” I complimented, discreetly covering a belch with my free hand, the other being engaged in reaching for another heavenly light and fluffy pastry.

Frodo beamed.

“It's true, Frodo,” Pippin echoed my praise, and slapped my hand away from the largest blueberry tart. His belch was nowhere near discreet. “'Scuse me,” he said. “Truly, Father would give a great deal to be half so well fed. Sam, should you ever tire of gardening, you'd find employment in our kitchens-- guaranteed!”

“Hey!” Frodo protested.

“Thank you, Mr. Pippin,” Sam scooped up a tray of dirty dishes as he rose from his place at the table, “but I'm quite content here in Hobbiton.” He vanished to the kitchen.

If Pippin felt Frodo's glare, he ignored it. “Such a waste,” he murmured. “That lad's bound for greater things.”

“Greater things than stuffing your face full of tarts, anyway,” Frodo snapped. “I'll just go fetch some tea,” he muttered, and followed Sam out to the kitchen.

“What's gotten into you, Pippin?” I asked. “Are you trying to flirt with Sam?”

“Why not?” Pippin inquired, helping himself to another glass of wine. “He's not that bad to look at. Or hadn't you noticed?” Happily, he licked a gob of syrupy sugar from his sticky fingers.

“W-what?” I sputtered, but was denied a reply due to Frodo arriving with a heavily laden tea tray. Sam trailed anxiously behind him, obviously itching to seize hold of the tray.

“I think we'll take this in the parlour,” Frodo stated, neatly side-stepping Sam, and determinedly shooing us all on ahead of him. “Sam, you've done more than enough for us this evening. Sit down. I'm perfectly capable of pouring tea.”

And he might well have been capable of doing so without incident too, had not Pippin extended his long legs just as Frodo stepped past and bent to offer Sam his tea. Cup, tea and Frodo tumbled to Sam's lap.

The hot tea must have burnt him, but Sam made no outcry. He did flinch slightly, when the fine porcelain teacup bounced and shattered on the floor, but his arms were too full of Frodo to make a move to catch it. And full of Frodo they remained as uncounted seconds ticked by and the two stared in shock one at the other: wide, blue eyes mere inches from a startled, hazel gaze.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, cousin,” Pippin wailed, leaping to his feet and trying to sop up the spreading mess with his linen napkin. “I'm sorry, Sam! Merry, help me pick up this glass-- no Frodo, stay put! You don't want to cut your feet!”

Sam's arms tightened around Frodo at this admonishment. Despite the ever increasing beet-red hue of his complexion, he kept his master safe from harm until the broken glass was whisked away. Frodo's face was scarcely a lesser shade of red as he finally regained his feet.

“If you will forgive me, sirs,” Sam mumbled. “I'll just finish up the dishes and be gettin' myself on home.”

"No!” Frodo barked, startling us all as still as statues. “I think Pippin can handle that little chore. Merry and I will help him.”

“In that case, sir,” Sam whispered. “I'll just say my good nights.”

“No,” Frodo repeated in a softer tone. “Your clothing's drenched straight through. You'll freeze halfway home. Come with me, Sam. I think some of Bilbo's old clothes should fit you.” He picked at his own soggy shirt ruefully. “And I think, perhaps, I need to change as well.”

~*~

I have on occasion referred to my young cousin as 'accident prone', but never before have I seen the likes of the series of insane calamities which occurred over the next few days. Moreover, strangely enough, it soon became apparent that Pippin's misfortunes touched him not all, but rather caused the most suffering to poor Frodo and Sam.

When Pippin knocked over the ladder, it was on Frodo's head that it fell. Sam had to leave his baking to apply ice to the resulting bruise.

When Pippin slipped on the icy pathway, it was Sam he barreled into and knocked down. It took Frodo several minutes to calm and console him, Sam so blamed himself for dropping and breaking the crate of fresh eggs he'd been carrying.

When Pippin accidentally filled the sugar bowl with salt, it was Sam who patted Frodo's back as he rid himself of the noxious brew his sweet-tea had become.

When Pippin dropped a whole tray of cookies while standing just behind Sam, it was Frodo who cleansed and bandaged the gash the paring knife left in Sam's hand when he jumped in understandable startlement.

I'm sure I was not alone in heaving a huge sigh of relief when the day ended and Pippin retired for the night.

~*~

Yule Day dawned bright and crisp and clear, and proved blessedly free of major disasters. Save one or two. Naturally, Pippin could not find his gift for Frodo. It wasn't in his pack. It wasn't beneath his bed. Not in his bedroom, nor anywhere else in the smial as far as we could tell.

“I know I hid it somewhere about,” he repeated for the tenth time in as many minutes.

“It doesn't matter, Pippin,” Frodo soothed, passing over his gift to Sam and accepting Sam's shy offering in return. He had insisted that we wait for Sam's arrival before we opened a single gift. Pippin's patience had been sorely tried, though we had put the time to good use in searching through Bag End. I found a favourite mitten I'd lost several Yuletides ago!

My tobacco pouches had been greeted with great enthusiasm by all three recipients. Pippin had gifted me with the most magnificent yellow weskit I'd ever seen, while Sam received a substantial collection of bulbs and seeds, purchased by Pippin over the last year from various wandering tradesmen.

“A challenge for you, Mr. Gamgee,” Pippin giggled. “Let's see if you can make them blossom for you here in the Shire. The vendors said it couldn't be done. Different soils and climates, I suppose. Are you up to the task?”

“He is,” Frodo said surely. Sam's eyes fell to the brightly labeled envelopes held gently in his hands. And Frodo smiled to see him blushing so.

Sam had crafted beautifully hand-carved pipes for Pip and me. You'd not see their likes in the finest shop in Bree.

Frodo's gift proved to be an even more exquisitely carved pipe. It must have taken forever to create: each carved line was perfect, each joint craftily concealed. Frodo's face softened with delight as he traced a finger across the gleaming wood. “It's lovely, Sam.” he said finally. His hand fluttered to rest on Sam's arm in a silent, heartfelt thank you.

“Thought you might find some use of it, sir,” Sam mumbled, dipping his head, obviously embarrassed to be the centre of attention. “Noticed there's a crack in the old one you use.”

Fidgeting with the ribbon wound round his gift, Sam finally worked it free and slowly peeled aside the wrappings. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh...”

“What is it, Sam?” Pippin pushed past me to sneak a glimpse. “Oh. A book.”

“Not just any book,” Sam whispered, reverently leafing through its thick pages. “It's all my favourite stories. Mr. Frodo's written them down for me. Here's Mr. Bilbo and the trolls... Beren and Lúthien... and how the first elves came to Middle Earth. Sir...” Sam's heart was in his eyes as he lifted his glance to meet my cousin's level gaze. “I don't know what to say. No one has ever given the likes of this to me. Thank you.”

“I thought you might enjoy reading the old stories for yourself, whenever you like,” Frodo murmured.

“Tha' I will!” Sam cried.

“Yes,” Pippin smiled, “I should imagine he'll tuck himself up in bed and read himself away to pleasant dreams indeed.”

“Uh...” Frodo clearly was not sure how to reply to this odd comment.

“Time to give that spit a turn, no doubt,” Sam said uneasily. “I thank you all, sirs. 'Tis a Yuletide to remember.” He turned to escape to the kitchen.

“That it is,” Pippin sighed. And promptly tipped over the fire grate, sending bright sparks flying into Frodo's hair. Sam rushed back to assist me in patting them away.

“Honestly, Pippin!” Frodo exclaimed, shaking his singed head in exasperation.

“I'm sorry, cousin,” Pippin said meekly. “I promise to do better.”

~*~

And Pip _did_ manage to do better. At least for the balance of Yule Day.

Unfortunately, the remainder of our visit was not to be uneventful.

Other strange incidents included:

... a toppled snowfort that resulted in Sam rescuing Frodo from a tomb of snow.

... a run-away sled that side-swiped both Frodo and Sam and sent them reeling into a snowbank in a tangle of arms and legs.

... released hounds that treed Sam and Frodo for the better part of an hour, till their owner could be persuaded to leave his ale and call off his unfriendly beasts. My poor cousin and his gardener were quite frozen by the end of that adventure, cuddling for warmth not being of much value when perched on a branch at the mercy of a bitter winter wind.

I will spare you further gruesome details, they are too numerous and bizarre to mention in any case. Suffice to say that, near our visit's end, Frodo and Sam automatically stood back to back the moment Pippin walked into a room, having realized that either one of them alone presented far too tempting a target to Pippin's aura of bad-luck. They worked well together as an inseparable team. Two heads are better than one, or so the saying goes, and for the duration of our visit Sam was never too far from his grateful master's side. Indeed, they frequently sought light touches of hand to hand to reassure themselves that the other was close by. Not that their defensive measures averted all further injury. They did not escape unscathed. Nor did the smial...

~*~

All too soon it was time for us to take our departure.

“Goodbye, cousin,” I said, holding Frodo tightly to my breast as we hugged in sad farewell. “Thank you for a most memorable visit. Shall I see you this spring at Brandy Hall? Father would be most pleased if you could come for Mayfest -- you too, Sam. That goes without saying!”

“We'll see, Merry,” Frodo replied, moving cautiously to embrace our young, jinxed cousin. “Take care, Pippin. Don't fall off your pony and break your neck on the way home.”

“I'll see him safely there,” I promised.

“Hmm. Yes. _You_ should be safe. He's yet to drop something atop _your_ head.,” Frodo observed wryly.

“Goodbye, Frodo,” Pippin fondly kissed him on the cheek. “I'm sorry I lost your present. I'm sure it will turn up soon.”

A hearty handshake from each of us to Sam, and we mounted our sturdy ponies.

“Goodbye! Goodbye!” I called.

Pippin's clear and piping tenor sang us on our way.

Nostalgically, I paused as we crested the hill that would take us from Hobbiton, and turned my pony around so that I might better cast a final glance back that way. Frodo and Sam still stood together at Bag End's door, heads tilted up as if looking at something suspended above them.

“I see they found it,” Pippin mused, drawing his pony to a halt and neatly turning him around to face Bag End with me. No sign of clumsiness marred his sure, smooth movements.

“Found what?” I demanded.

“My present,” Pippin said complacently.

The two distant figures suddenly merged into one. The big green door slammed shut behind them decisively.

“Pip-pin... What, exactly, was your gift to Frodo this year?”

“Oh,” Pippin said with a cheeky grin. “Just a sprig of mistletoe... and a few wee nudges in the right direction.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's POV

I had just finished wrapping up the last of my Yuletide gifts when I heard raised voices out in my front yard. Without even looking out the window, I deduced that dear Cousin Merry had finally put in an appearance, and I heaved a thankful sigh. Pippin's endless litany of “when's Merry coming?” had set my head to aching within minutes of his arrival. Unfair as it had been to Sam, I'd packed Pip off to wait outside, suggesting that he might help assemble wreaths to pass the time. From the ill-hidden grin on my gardener's face, I knew he knew what I was about, and that he held no hope for any assistance from that particular source. He was right on that account. Each time I peered out, Pippin was still nattering away, bending Sam's ear with all kinds of idle chatter and knocking neatly piled boughs into disorder as he paced to and fro.

“I owe you, Sam,” I murmured on one such reconnaissance. As if he heard, Sam's eyes turned to the smial, and his grin widened into a shy, but genuine smile. I could have sworn I saw him wink, before he ducked his head back down to his busy hands...

Pippin's voice rose yet another an octave with excitement. Yes, Merry was definitely here. And probably bowled over flat on his back, if I knew my Tooks. With any luck, we could all look forward to a peaceful, stress-free Yule now that our excitable lad was under the steadying influence of his beloved cousin. Eagerly I hastened to my front door, swinging it open and making a beeline for our rescuer.

“Merry,” I smiled, wrapping him in my arms. Oh! but his answering embrace was cold! The snow dusting his woolen cloak quickly dampened my shirt, reminding me that I had not bothered dressing properly for the weather. I shivered, and only just managed to keep my teeth from chattering. But before I could open my mouth to suggest we go inside, I felt thick cloth settle around my shoulders.

“Can't have you catchin' chill,” Sam murmured, the mist of his warm breath floating past my face on the cold air.

Sam. Sam's cloak. Warm from his body heat and smelling sweetly of evergreen resin and... Sam. Oh! The dear lad would willing freeze himself to save his absentminded master! I couldn't allow it. No matter that it felt... it felt as though he'd wrapped me in a protective embrace.

Eyes locked with his, I raised a hand to my shoulder, intending to return his cloak, but Sam smiled and backed away.

“I'll just take Nell off to the stables, Mr. Merry,” he said.

“Sam...” I started.

“'Tis warm in there,” Sam continued as if he didn't hear my protest. ”I'll give her a good rub-down and bring your packs on in when I'm done.”

“Sam...” This time he answered the warning in my voice.

“I'll fetch my cloak then, Mr. Frodo. And just run these wreaths down to the Deerfoots for you, sir. I'll be back in plenty o' time to have that roast chicken done for supper as you wanted.”

Off he trotted without a backward glance.

I clutched the borrowed cloak closer around myself, trying to conceal how shaken I was by my stubbornly continuing illusion of his arms wrapped around me. A mix of amusement and frustration flickered across my face. “I'm surprised he didn't pop his hat over my ears while he was at it,” I muttered, trying to lighten my mood with a silly joke. But oh, what if he had? What if Sam's warm hands had brushed through my curls, touching upon sensitive ear tips in passing, lingering upon my cheeks as he leaned in to--

I quickly shook such unlikely fancies from my mind. “Come on in, lads. It _is_ freezing out here. And I have some mulled cider waiting.” Not waiting for their reply, I let quick steps carry me back into the smial.

~*~

“No one sets a table like your Sam,” Merry complimented as our leisurely meal drew to a most satisfactory end.

My Sam. I liked the sound of that. My Sam blushed at the praise, and wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. He had wanted to serve us and then dine alone out in the kitchen. As if I would permit such a thing! This Yuletide gathering was for family _and_ friends... and Sam is both to me. Drat propriety and his confounded modesty!

I beamed with pride on his behalf. My Sam. Yes, he is that. Though not mine in all those ways that I might wish he could be...

“It's true, Frodo,” Pippin stated enthusiastically, slapping Merry's hand away from the largest blueberry tart, and claiming it for himself.

Where did he learn such manners? Certainly not from me!

“'Scuse me,” he said not bothering to suppress a belch. “Truly, Father would give a great deal to be half so well fed. Sam, should you ever tire of gardening, you'd find employment in our kitchens-- guaranteed!”

That captured my wandering attention. “Hey!” I protested. Stop trying to poach my gardener. And he's not on the menu-- don't look at him that way!

“Thank you, Mr. Pippin,” Sam had clearly had more than enough of this discomforting conversation. Scooping up a tray of dirty dishes as he rose from his place at the table, he continued, “but I'm quite content here in Hobbiton,” and vanished to the kitchen.

If Pippin felt my glare, he unwisely ignored it. “Such a waste,” he murmured. “That lad's bound for greater things.”

“Greater things than stuffing your face full of tarts, anyway,” I snapped. How dare he insinuate that _I_ was not a worthy employer! That _he_ might find better uses for Sam! “I'll just go fetch some tea,” I muttered irritably, and followed Sam out to the kitchen before I could succumb to my rising desire to box Pippin's ears.

Sam was busily tidying the counter, trying to make space for all the dirty crockery that had been called into service for our feast. He did not see me hovering in the doorway, suddenly uncertain of my welcome, half-fearing that my presence might be seen as naught more than an intrusion in his domain. Master I might be of Bag End, but we both knew who was the true master of this room. And master of my heart, did he but know it.

I sighed wistfully. How long have I loved Sam? When did my affection for a bright and clever child turn into this deep and painful longing for the handsome adult hobbit he had become? What would he think of the erotic fantasies I wove in the dark hours of the night, sleepless and restless in my too-large and too-empty bed. What would he say if I crossed the kitchen and took him in my arms, right here, right now, and pressed my mouth to his? What if he knew--

But he could never know. The shameful secrets his master dreamed must remain shrouded in their secrecy. Sam was too pure, too good, to be sullied by the likes of me.

With that strange sixth sense he seemed to posses in regards to my presence, Sam's head turned towards me and his warm hazel eyes crinkled at the edges with his easy smile.

“I'm sorry, Sam” I said, stepping all the way into the kitchen. I braced both hands on the table separating us. “Pippin is... Pippin is, well, Pippin.” I shrugged, at a loss for better words.

Sam's smile deepened. “Ah,” he murmured. “That he is.” Efficiently, he placed cups and saucers and all the trimmings of a proper tea upon a large silver tray. “Don't fret, Mr. Frodo. He means no harm. I know when I'm being teased-- and so should you.”

My eyes widened at this reply. Had Sam picked up on Pippin's flirting? And did he think me jealous? How very... perceptive. What else might his keen eyes see? Had I been anything less than careful?

My hands fluttered over the tea tray, nervously rearranging that which was already perfectly organized.

“I'll get that, sir.”

“I have it, Sam.”

Sam reached out to sweep up the tray, but I grabbed onto its handles first, as if to anchor myself in mundane matters, far removed from the perils of unrequited love. Short of wrestling it from me, he had no choice other than to allow me to carry it from the room. But he trailed anxiously behind, obviously itching to seize hold of the tray.

“I think we'll take this in the parlour,” I stated, neatly side-stepping Sam, and determinedly shooing them all on ahead of me. “Sam, you've done more than enough for us this evening. Sit down. I'm perfectly capable of pouring tea.”

It wasn't like I'd never poured a cup before. And I would have done so without incident this time too, had I not been so keenly aware of Sam's pensive eyes upon me, and so oblivious to Pippin's outstretched legs.

To my humiliation, I tripped. That was bad enough. But when cup, tea and clumsy hobbit tumbled into Sam's lap, my humiliation was more than complete.

As if captured in slow motion, I saw the chain of events unfold. Sam flinched slightly as hot tea saturated his clothing, but he made no outcry. There was an instant when he had the choice of catching cup or master... He never hesitated. Sure arms reached out to cushion my landing, and drew me safely to his breast. The normal flow of time resumed as my fine porcelain teacup bounced and shattered on the floor. Uncounted seconds ticked by as we stared in shock at each other, my eyes mere inches from his.

I had thought his cloak warm and comforting -- it was as nothing, compared to his actual embrace. I could feel myself drowning, drowning in his eyes, melting into his heat, molding myself to the contours of his body... lost... lost...

“Oh, I'm so sorry, cousin,” Pippin abruptly wailed, startling me back to my senses. I had completely forgotten there were others present in the room. “I'm sorry, Sam! Merry, help me pick up this glass!”

It was then that I noticed the crimson tide suffusing Sam's face. An answering blush swept across my own. What must he be thinking? I was draped across him like a love-sick lass! In panic, I struggled to be set free.

“No Frodo, stay put! You don't want to cut your feet!”

Sam's arms tightened around me at this admonishment. I froze in place, too mortified now to enjoy the closeness I had so eagerly surrendered to mere seconds ago.

The glass was swiftly whisked away, though the task of a few moments seemed an eternity to me. Awkwardly, I clambered to my feet, not knowing where to best direct my eyes.

“If you will forgive me, sirs,” Sam mumbled. “I'll just finish up the dishes and be gettin' myself on home.” He clearly looked as embarrassed as I felt, and if the floor had opened wide to swallow him, no doubt he would have deemed it no small mercy . But even so, he would not shirk his duties... Nor would I shirk mine. I tilted up my chin defiantly.

“No!” I barked, making all three hobbits freeze at the sharpness of my tone. “I think Pippin can handle that little chore. Merry and I will help him.”

“In that case, sir,” Sam whispered miserably. “I'll just say my good nights.”

“No,” I repeated in a softer tone, determinedly playing the solicitous host and nothing more. “Your clothing's drenched straight through. You'll freeze halfway home. Come with me, Sam. I think some of Bilbo's old clothes should fit you.” I picked at my own soggy shirt ruefully. “And I think, perhaps, I need to change as well.”

~*~

I awoke from a restless slumber, tormented by half-remembered dreams and filled with an urgent _wanting_ that made me catch my head between my hands and moan aloud. I had the strangest feeling that I should plead indisposed and spend the day in bed contemplating the vagaries of some dispassionate elvish text. Would I had listened to this premonition... But, no, days spent in Merry and Pippin's lively company were too few and far between to lightly toss away.

Quickly, I rose and dressed and made my way out to the kitchen. From the delicious smells wafting down the corridor to greet me, I knew that Sam was already hard at work there. I would pretend nothing untoward had occurred last night. In time, we both would come to believe the lie. Life would go on as ever...

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully as I passed through the doorway.

There was a shout of warning, and a terrible, blinding pain...

The next thing I clearly saw was Sam's face, bent close to mine, brow furrowed in concern. His lips were moving but the sound was slow to follow. Something about a lover? Or a ladder? Oh! His hands were as cold as ice -- no, they _were_ ice, or rather they were pressing an ice-filled compress to my head. Ladder. It would seem Pippin had knocked a ladder over on me.

Later that morning I was resting in the study, not dozing really, just pleasantly drifting off into a most pleasurable daydream where Sam's lips replaced the ice-pack and trailed healing kisses across my aching brow...

A sudden clamour sent me bolting to my feet and scrambling outside. Pippin had slipped on our icy pathway, barreling into Sam and knocking the poor hobbit to the ground. And there sat Sam, broken eggs surrounding him like staring, golden eyes. Accusing eyes, to his way of thinking. It took energy I really could not spare to silence his self-blame for improperly sanding the path, and calm his near hysteria at breaking all the fresh eggs destined for the morrow's feast. I think it was less my soothing words than the fact that my teeth were chattering that finally had him up on his feet, bustling me back into the smial for a warming cup of tea.

How Pippin managed to confuse salt with sugar is a mystery to me. The bags were clearly labeled-- though I suppose in his haste to fetch me the sugar he might well have misread them. In any case, the tea was foul, so foul it sent me retching to the sink. Already weak and dizzy from the earlier blow to my skull, I reeled and would have fallen had not Sam rushed to support me. His right hand traced a pattern of circles on my back, while his left rested reassuringly on my heaving chest. Afterwards, he led me to a chair, took the wet cloth Merry offered and gently wiped beads of perspiration from my face.

Supper was late that night, though we had an early start on its preparation. We all decided to pitch in and give Sam a hand and were making good progress, or so we thought, until Pippin suddenly dropped a whole tray of cookies. It clattered to the floor with a resounding crash, startling poor Sam so badly that his paring knife slipped and gave his hand a nasty gash. He protested it was but a scratch, but I would not listen to such nonsense. Carefully, I washed and disinfected the injury, and used the softest old shirt I could find to make a bandage. How good his hand felt clasped in mine, laying trusting and open to whatever I might deem necessary for it's cure. How I yearned to tilt my head down to his palm and place a kiss there...

In the space of one short day I had touched and been touched more by my Samwise than we had in total over the space of several years. It seemed right... it seemed natural... and it awoke in me a hunger for further touches. His calloused hands were so sure, so strong, and yet so gentle. What he thought of my hands, my touch, I could not say. But he did not pull away...

I was very glad when the day was over and at long last I could retire to the privacy of my room, where the touch of my hands was not gentle upon me at all.

~*~

Yule morning dawned full of promise and an excitement I had not felt since I was a lad. I insisted we wait for Sam to join us, and would not allow Pippin more than a peek at his presents. He complained bitterly that Sam would be all morning celebrating with his own family, and that he certainly must be opening presents there. I was not swayed by this argument. And in any case it gave us time to search for Pippin's missing gift to me. The silly lad had somehow misplaced it. Outsmarted himself, no doubt, hiding it so cleverly that even he could no longer remember where the hiding place was. We searched high and low, but no trace of it could we find. Pippin's face was a study of woe, but soon lifted back to its cheerful norm when Sam walked in the smial, his presents for us tucked beneath one arm.

Pippin ripped open his presents in record time, and returned to obsessing about his missing gift for me. “I know I hid it somewhere about,” he repeated for the tenth time in as many minutes, his slender fingers absentmindedly petting his new fine-woolen scarf.

“It doesn't matter, Pippin,” I soothed, passing over my gift to Sam and accepting his shy offering in return. Ours were the final gifts to be opened. Merry was busy admiring his new pocket watch, having firmly attached its chain to the pocket of the gaudy weskit Pippin had given him. A new pipe dangled from his smile-curved lips.

I smiled fondly. Dear Merry. What a colourful picture he made, contrasting so nicely with the dark-green backdrop of fragrant garlands Sam had placed about the room.

Funny, how colours seemed more vibrant to me today. The colourful little packets of seeds Pippin had given Sam almost hurt my eyes. I smiled again thinking of Pippin's new tease...

“A challenge for you, Mr. Gamgee,” he giggled. “Let's see if you can make them blossom for you here in the Shire. The vendors said it couldn't be done. Different soils and climates, I suppose. Are you up to the task?”

“He is,” I answered quietly. There was no doubt in my mind. My garden would have strange blossoms to delight me in the spring. Somehow I knew they would find a home here at Bag End, not in the Gamgee's flowerbeds. And I smiled to see Sam's modest blush, his plans to 'surprise' me writ clear upon his honest face.

Pippin's sharp elbow recalled me to the present. Giving him a good-natured shove, I bent my full attention upon my gift. It too was a pipe. I had thought Merry and Pippin's gifts well-crafted, but this pipe was as far above theirs as the stars are above my head. It must have taken forever to create: each carved line was perfect, each joint craftily concealed. It felt warm... as if it retained the heat of its creator's hand, the memory of his fingers caressing it into shape. My face softened with delight as I traced my own finger across the gleaming wood. “It's lovely, Sam.” I said finally, inadequately. My hand drifted to rest on his arm in a silent, heartfelt thank you.

“Thought you might find some use of it, sir,” Sam mumbled, dipping his head, obviously embarrassed. “Noticed there's a crack in the old one you use.”

Yes. He would notice such a little thing. There is not much his eyes do not see, not much he does not know about me... I have but one last secret which I must never tell. Sadly, my hand dropped from his sleeve.

Fidgeting with the ribbon wound round his gift, Sam finally worked it free and slowly peeled aside the wrappings. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh...” His reaction was all I had hoped it would be.

“What is it, Sam?” Pippin almost knocked Merry over in his haste to sneak a glimpse. “Oh. A book.”

“Not just any book,” Sam whispered, reverently leafing through its thick pages. “It's all my favourite stories. Mr. Frodo's written them down for me. Here's Mr. Bilbo and the trolls... Beren and Lúthien... and how the first elves came to Middle Earth. Sir...” Sam's eyes glittered with tears as he lifted his glance to meet my gaze. “I don't know what to say. No one has ever given the likes of this to me. Thank you.”

“I thought you might enjoy reading the old stories for yourself, whenever you like,” I murmured. As I enjoyed writing them down for him. As I enjoyed recalling his delight as I read them to him over and over again through the years.

“Tha' I will!” Sam cried.

“Yes,” Pippin smiled, “I should imagine he'll tuck himself up in bed and read himself away to pleasant dreams indeed.”

“Uh...” I trailed into silence, wickedly sideswiped by the notion of Sam in bed, naked, reading my book... curled around me... reading the book to me.... the book dropping to the floor, forgotten, as I stroked my hand up his thigh... my lips following the same path with a trail of kisses until I reached his ready cock and slipped the rose-hued tip inside my mouth... sliding up and down the eager shaft, feeling my own cock weep in sympathy until he reached out a trembling hand and said--

“Time to give that spit a turn, no doubt,” Sam said uneasily. “I thank you all, sirs. 'Tis a Yuletide to remember.” He turned to escape to the kitchen.

“That it is,” Pippin sighed.

Somehow the young fool managed to tip over the fire grate, sending bright sparks flying up into my hair. Sam and Merry rushed over to my rescue, patting the danger away. Merry's hands were cool and soothing on my skin. Sam's touch burned more deeply than the fire.

“Honestly, Pippin!” I exclaimed, shaking my head in exasperation.

“I'm sorry, cousin,” Pippin said meekly. “I promise to do better.”

~*~

The balance of Yule Day was indeed peaceful -- and thoroughly enjoyable in every way. I am the luckiest of hobbits: blessed with not one, not two, but three dear and wonderful friends! How could I ask for more? How could my heart be so ungracious as to wish--nay, pray-- that I could find a love to match the yearning that filled my breast. I cast such ungrateful notions from my mind, and flung myself into the enjoyment of the day.

Unfortunately, it was but the lull before the storm.

It snowed that night. Not the mere dusting which passes for snow cover most winters here in the Shire, but a real storm: with howling winds and madly swirling snow. By morning, the winds had died down, but enormous, fluffy flakes continued to fall until well past mid-day. Pippin dug out an old sled from the cellar, and insisted we all go out to enjoy the glittering fairyland Hobbiton had become.

Sam promised to join in on our adventure as soon as his shoveling chores permitted.

A shame he did not still have his shovel with him when he finally appeared on the Hill. Pippin and I were manning a splendid, towering snow fort, defending ourselves from Merry and his raggedy gang of squealing children. It was a vigorous battle, and we were in dire need of reinforcements. Merry's aim was deadly. What the children lacked in skill, they more than made up for in enthusiasm and sheer numbers. Risking a barrage of snowballs, I stood up to wave Sam over to our side. And that is when a wall of snow toppled down upon me.

Sound was muffled beneath my heavy blanket of snow, but I heard Sam's voice raised above all the others, directing Pippin and Merry as to where to lead their team of rescuers without a care for usurping their right to command. Pip-- or perhaps Merry? -- first uncovered a foot and followed it to an ankle, then to a knee, giving a frantic Sam the reference point he needed to find and uncover my face. He brushed the last of the wet and clinging snow away with his bare hands, and I drew a deep and shuddering gasp of fresh air into my lungs.

“Are you alright, Frodo?” he fretted, too absorbed by worry to notice he had inadvertently dropped the 'Mister' from my name.

“F-fine. I'm f-fine,” I stuttered, accepting his hand up. We stood there, hands gripping each other's elbows while Merry dusted snow from my cloak and Pippin bounced around us uselessly.

“I think I've had enough snow for today,” I said. “No, Pip, you and Merry stay here if you wish. I'll just tuck myself up by the fire and read till you're done.”

“Well...” Merry said, wistfully eyeing the sledding hill, and the sled tucked under Pippin's arm.

“Go, on,” I laughed. “You too, Sam. You've only just arrived.”

“I'll see you home, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said firmly. At this, Merry relaxed and allowed Pippin to grab him by the hand and tow him off up the hill.

“Really, Sam,” I continued my useless protest, as we picked our careful way towards home. Sam's hand hovered near my arm, but he didn't quite have the nerve to actually grab hold and give unsolicited support.

“Look out below!!!” Pippin's clear voice caroled. But the warning came too late. He and Merry tumbled from the sled even as we turned, rolling over and over in a giggling tangle of arms and legs. Their abandoned sled plowed straight on towards us.

“S-sir--” Sam managed, before we too were tumbled to the ground, the sled neatly knocking our legs out from under us and propelling us into the nearest snowbank. I landed on top, chin buried near Sam's warm neck, the rest of my face thrust into the snow for the second time that day. Somehow, our legs had hooked and locked together. My left arm was buried under Sam's not insubstantial weight, my right was flung across his left, pinning him flat on his back. His free arm had somehow managed to wrap itself around me, those wonderful protective instincts of his kicking in at the first sign of danger.

“Are you hurt, cousin?” Merry's consideration was tinged with laughter.

I lifted my face from its icy nest, sputtering snow from my lips as I replied with quiet dignity. “I'm quite fine, thank you.”

From underneath me came a quiet rumble that might have been a choked back laugh... or perhaps a mumbled “Go away, Merry.”

In any case, Merry did not go away. He carefully helped me extricate myself, then extended a helping hand to Sam.

“That was impressive, cousin.” I muttered sarcastically.

“Oh, I let Pippin steer.” Merry quickly replied, giving credit where credit was due.

I should have known.

We all deemed ourselves tired of romping in the snow at this point, and retired to Bag End for some much needed hot tea and a cheerfully blazing hearth. My good humour was soon restored as I nibbled on a sweetbread and sipped my perfectly sweetened tea. Merry and Pippin sat back to back on the floor before the blaze, idly trading tall tales and bad jokes. Sam unbent sufficiently to slouch a little in his chair, half dozing as the room's warmth penetrated his chilled bones. I closed my eyes and breathed in the pleasant atmosphere which filled my smial and heart to overflowing...

I too must have dozed, for when I next opened my eyes, Pippin and Merry were curled up like tired puppies, fast asleep on the rug. Sam was snoring in his chair, sweetbread crumbs scattered on his weskit. My half-empty cup now rested on the little end table beside my chair; a soft blanket had been tucked around me. Sam, I smiled. And closed my eyes.

~*~

I do not much care for dogs. Pippin knows this, so I cannot imagine what possessed him to open the gate and try to pet Farmer Stillwell's's vicious beasts. It had been a pleasant stroll up until that time. No tumbles in a ditch. No unexpected objects dropping on my head.

As the baying hounds gladly escaped their pen, Merry looked at me in shocked dismay. One word fell from his lips: “Run!” He followed this good advice by quickly sprinting for the gate where Pippin perched, calling out encouragement and waving madly. Sam and I were slightly slower to react. By the time our feet were pounding across the field, the dogs had cut between us and my shouting cousins.

“Tree!” Sam panted, clutching hold of my arm and dragging me towards the massive oak which shaded Stillwell's cattle in their summer pasture. “Up.” he ordered, cupping his hands to receive my foot.

“S-sam...”

“Up,” he repeated, and half threw me into the tree when I meekly complied and placed my cold foot in his warm hands. I scooted over on the branch as he scrambled up to safety. Deprived of their prey, the dogs milled around the tree, snapping and jumping and snarling scant inches below us. “Higher,” Sam said. And I did not argue this time. I took his hand and followed where he led.

“Are you alright, cousin?” Merry shouted across the field and clamour.

“We're fine!” I replied. “Just fine. Can you fetch good Mr. Stillwell and have him retrieve his hounds?”

Pippin swung the gate closed, shutting himself and Merry inside the safety of the fence. He trotted up to the smial's door. A few moments later he reappeared, looking sheepish. “He's not at home,” he shouted.

A young woman's head popped out of the smial. “Da's at the Proudfoots' farm, Mr. Frodo,” she cried.

“Well then, Miss. Lilac,” I shouted back. “Could _you_ please call in the hounds?”

“They only listen to Da,” she informed me.

Oh. Lovely.

“Then could you please go fetch your father,” I hollered finally.

“Baby Lily's sleeping. I'm minding her for Ma. She's at the Proudfoots' too.”

“We'll go!” Pippin cried. “You wait here, Frodo. Um... could you amuse the hounds for us for a few moments?”

Sam and I bounced up and down on our branch, shouting and throwing twigs down at the dogs till Pip and Merry were safely away.

Lilac stood in the doorway for awhile, looking bemusedly at the strange decorations in her tree. The thin wail of a baby finally drew her back inside. The door swung closed behind her.

I looked at Sam. “I am going to kill Pippin,” I stated in a reasonable tone.

Sam laughed till tears streamed from his eyes.

My own lips curved in reply.

Two of the dogs began digging at the base of the tree, probably hoping to topple it over and thus deliver us to the eagerly watching pack.

“Eh,” Sam managed finally, wiping a sleeve across his eyes. “He is a handful, isn't he?” He leaned back comfortably against rough bark: neatly cradled in a fork of our friend, the tree, and obviously resigned to settling down for a long wait. “Must be his Tookish blood,” he offered with a little smile.

My head lifted at this cheeky remark. “ _I_ have Tookish blood,” I pointed out.

Sam's smile broadened. “Aye,” he said. “that you do.”

“Then, I suppose I should conclude that I'm 'a handful' too.”

“Oh, aye.” he said easily. “That you are. Not that I'm mindin'... sir.”

I shivered at the almost-caress in his voice.

“Are you cold, then, Mr. Frodo?” Concern darkened Sam's hazel eyes, subduing the dancing motes of green that had been present scant seconds ago.

I shook my head.

All teasing gone from his expression, Sam held open his cloak and waited patiently. As long moments passed and still I hesitated, he held out a hand. “Come here,” he said. And, quietly, I obeyed. Cloak and arms wrapped around me as I settled down against him, my back against the cushion of his chest.

Soft breath rustled trough my hair. I shivered again. His arms wrapped me up even more securely.

“I don't think I'll kill Pippin,” I murmured, after an age of silence had passed.

And this time I felt the laughter shake him, till I could not tell his from my own.

  


  


~*~

Our bodies were more than half frozen by the time Stillwell finally put in his grudging appearance, but a warm glow lingered deep inside us that no chill of air could touch. Nor did the feeling vanish over the next few days. It took but a meeting of our eyes to re-ignite it. Like moon and earth we circled one another, round and round and round: now drawing close, now drifting apart, as we traveled through the days. And, somehow, somewhere along the way, it became quite clear to us both that the paths we chose to tread were safest when we trod them together -- especially when Pippin was around.

Calamities and weird co-incidences continued to dog his every step.

Oddly enough, a pattern soon developed: damage seemed to vary according to how quickly Sam and I responded to Pippin's presence. Light touches of Sam's hand to mine, or mine to his, served well to reassure that the other was close by. In fact, it became Sam's habit never to be too far from my side, nor did I stray far from his. The moment young Pip walked into a room, Sam and I automatically gravitated together. Back to back, or side by side we'd stand, braced for the worst that he might do.

The first time that this happened, Pippin stopped dead in his tracks and the strangest look flitted across his face. I could have sworn he looked... well, pleased. Though I had little time to gauge the truth of this observation, being quite involved in helping Sam remove the spruce gum that had inexplicably become entangled in his hair. I suppose it could have dripped down from one of the garlands... it really was past time to take them down!

The second time we adopted our defensive pose, Pippin's footsteps faltered slightly, before he continued quietly on his way to engage Merry in a game of chess. Sam only had to mop up a spilled crock of milk that time.

And so the days unfolded. All too soon it was time for my cousins to take their leave.

“Goodbye, cousin,” Merry said, holding me tightly to his breast as we hugged in farewell. “Thank you for a most memorable visit. Shall I see you this spring at Brandy Hall? Father would be most pleased if you could come for Mayfest -- you too, Sam. That goes without saying!”

“We'll see, Merry,” I replied, cautiously moving to embrace my younger cousin. “Take care, Pippin. Don't fall off your pony and break your neck on the way home.”

“I'll see him safely there,” Merry promised.

“Hmm. Yes. _You_ should be safe. He's yet to drop something atop _your_ head,” I observed wryly. Indeed, now that I thought about it, Merry had been exempt from _all_ the troubles. Strange...

“Goodbye, Frodo,” Pippin fondly kissed me on the cheek. “I'm sorry I lost your present. I'm sure it will turn up soon.”

A hearty handshake from each of them to Sam, and they mounted their sturdy ponies.

Nell blew me a kiss as I petted her velvety nose, and I slipped her half the apple I'd brought along as a parting treat. Pippin's pony nudged my shoulder and I held the other half out to him. Nell nickered disappointedly.

“Goodbye! Goodbye!” Merry called, flapping the reins to get the besotted Nell moving.

Pippin's clear and piping tenor filled the morning air with a traveling song, and off they went, taking their mischief with them and leaving only fond memories behind.

Sam and I stood by the gate and watched them ride away till a curve in the road hid them from view.

“Well,” I sighed.

“Well...” Sam breathed at the same time.

“Come in, Sam--” I began.

“I should go--” his rushed words overlapped mine.

“Come have a cup of tea?” I said, my voice soft and all uncertain.

“Yes,' he whispered, refusing to meet my eyes, but obediently following as I led him up the walkway. It felt odd not to reach out and catch up his hand in mine as I would have done only yesterday. But the excuse to do so was now gone. Hard as it might be, we would revert to our old ways. Yuletide -- and the magic of its season -- was over.

Wistfully, I reached out to remove the wreath from my front door, but a darker shade of green caught my eye as it swayed in the light breeze, and I looked up instead. Sam's gaze lifted up with mine.

Silently, we stared at the sprig of mistletoe suspended above us.

Oh.

Pippin's present.

I think I've found it.

From the corner of my eye I saw Sam's head lower and slowly turn to me. Even more slowly, my head lowered and turned to him. My eyes were wide and frightened, I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe...

In slow motion, Sam's hand rose and sought the back of my neck, cupping itself around me as if it had always belonged there. Still slowly, he drew my face forward to meet the slow advance of his...

A breath away from touching lips, he stopped to gaze deeply into my eyes.

“Frodo,” he said. And then he gently kissed me.

Nothing was slow after that moment. My arms flew up to loop around his neck, his hand tugged my head closer, as his other arm wrapped tightly around my waist. Hungrily, now, we kissed: mouths opening to each other, tongues dueling wetly as our bodies ground together.

Perhaps Yuletide's magic had not quite vanished after all?

When his hips began a rhythmic thrusting against mine I had my answer. Pinned against my front door, I whimpered helplessly. Oh, oh, I was going to come... right here, like this, fully dressed and in plain view for all to see...

Sensing our game was about to be over before we'd properly begun to play, Sam freed one hand from it's exploration of my eager flesh, and reached behind me to fumble with the latch. The door swung open and, still kissing, we stumbled awkwardly inside.

“Sam, Sam...” I moaned. “Are you sure, love. Are you very sure? I want-- I need---”

Sam's foot kicked the big green green door shut behind us. Decisively, he pressed me up against it once again. But here there would be no prying eyes. Here, I was his alone... and he was finally mine.

His hands tore at my buttons, pushing my shirt half off my shoulders, stroking the revealed flesh as if to memorize each curve of rib, each ripple of muscle as I quivered beneath his touch.

“Bed, Sam?” I begged between kisses, my lips swollen and tender, yet craving more of his taste.

“Bed,” he growled, and swept me up into his arms as easily as he might tote a load of firewood, but with infinite more care. “ _Your_ bed,” he said, voice husky with emotion as he carried me down the hall. “Do you know how often I've thought of you laying all alone in that big bed? How often I've pictured you naked, writhing beneath me there... How I've dreamed of you... longed for you...”

“I'm here, Sam,” I murmured. “I've been waiting for you. I've been dreaming too.”

“No more dreaming,” Sam said, placing me reverently on my quilted coverlet and cupping my face gently in his hands.

“This is real,” I whispered.

“Real,” he agreed, bending his head to claim my mouth once more.

There was no resistance as my hands urged him to join me on my bed, only sweet surrender as his body moved to cover mine and we began to make our fantasies come true... together.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Trilliah who made the delightful sketch for me of Frodo and Sam trapped on the tree branch. Here's the link to her drawing: http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Trilliah/media/Frodo_and_Sam/Tree.jpg.html


End file.
